Alex was driving a bus, long and grey and deadly, at night, uncertain. “You’re sure we’re okay to do this?” he said.

“Sure,” said Adam. “Got the permission right here.” He patted a large three ring binder.

“This is terrifying. The worst part is the stopping distance is three, four times longer than a car. By the time I see a car, it’s too late for me to avoid hitting it, on these roads.”

“You’re doing fine,” said Emily, leaning over the front seat and staring through the window.

“Stay behind the white line,” Alex said. She smirked at him and stuck out her tongue, but moved back behind the line. At the back of the bus he could hear the band warming up, guitars plinking, basses chugging emptily without their amplifiers. Rock music through a bank vault. His headlights swept the road before him, over hill and down dale, empty fields and moonlight. They were two hundred miles from home and getting faster.

A line of cars was stopped on the road, brakelights red and angry. He stomped on the brakes and the bus crashed to a halt in a squeal of compressed air. The basses thrangled unmelodically and fell silent. “Dammit,” yelled one. “Give us some warning.”